


Close Range

by neontiger55



Category: White Collar
Genre: Character Study, Episode Tag, Gen, Spoilers, season 4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-11
Updated: 2013-01-11
Packaged: 2017-11-25 03:00:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/634410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neontiger55/pseuds/neontiger55
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tag to 4.01 'Wanted'. Peter and Ellen talk about Neal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Close Range

**Author's Note:**

> Written and posted on LJ 16/07/12. Spoilers up to and including 4.01.

 

 

When Peter returns, he finds Ellen in the dining room, standing the midst of his self-imposed chaos. For a moment he feels strangely self-conscious, as he watches her fingers trace lines over the collection of papers and documents and sketches littering the table. From Munich to Chile, Brunei to Madagascar and out into the ocean. They fall off the edge of the map without leaving any clues and hover over a grainy image taken nearly seven years ago. Diffused light from the kitchen casts her profile in partial shadow, but there is no mistaking the tenderness that softens her expression.  
  
“It took me three years just to get that photo,” Peter says, stepping a little further into the room.  
  
Ellen turns around as he approaches.  
  
“Sat in the same spot for days, cramped up in a tiny surveillance van with six other agents in the middle of a heatwave, no working air con or radio. Then, as we were about to give up, call it in, out of nowhere Neal sauntered across the street, looked right at me and just  _smiled_. He disappeared into the city crowds before I could even think to get the damn door open, just - ” Peter clicks his fingers “ - like smoke.”  
  
Ellen laughs, a mixture of understanding and affection dancing in her eyes, and something tells Peter that none of this is much of a surprise to her at all.  
  
“You two are close now though. He trusts you,” she says, in a way that makes Peter unsure whether it’s a statement or a question. There is a quality to Ellen’s demeanor, steadiness, with something sharper lying just below the surface that Peter recognizes from years of carrying a gun and badge himself.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
She nods and circles around the table to where the evidence board is set up at the other end of the room, Neal’s life, splayed out and distilled to its rootless elements. This version must look odd to her, he thinks. He has the details: the size suit Neal wears, the kind of coffee he likes, where he has been and who with. They are the kind of things you learn about the people you spend a lot of time with, but without history - context - they form meaningless lists that say nothing and lead nowhere important.

There are other things, things that don’t belong on the board or in any file, and in that moment Peter wishes that was what Ellen was seeing instead. He wants to tell her about the look on Neal’s face when he breaks a case wide open, or when hits his mark perfectly. He wants to tell her how clear and cool Neal’s eyes are when he’s upset, and how his mouth curves into a blinding smile whenever someone gets too close to the truth. He wants to tell her that he doesn’t care about the facts because he  _knows_. But he can't tip his hand too soon; they are still weighing each other up, still forming a cautious alliance, and Peter has played this game before. 

“You’re very invested in him.” Ellen’s voice breaks his line of thought.  
  
Peter shrugs and offers a lopsided smile. “You were a cop. You must have had cases – ”  
  
“No. Not like this,” she says bluntly, studying his face. Peter feels as though she can see right through him, is finding every stray thought and impulse as they skitter across his mind. The silence stretches out before Ellen speaks again. “It’s dangerous for Neal to be in your world, Peter.”  
  
“You’d rather he was out there robbing banks and museums?” he asks, incredulous.  
  
“I’d rather he was – ” Ellen curls her fingers, as though trying to physically grasp the right word. “Free. Whatever that means for him.”  
  
Questions form that Peter wants to ask, questions he’s afraid to ask. After years spent with Neal, he’s used to that feeling, that sense that he is swimming in murky waters and with every stroke he risks stirring up more and more debris. But the hesitation is enough and he can see the barriers being put in place already, the excuses forming on Ellen’s tongue. Peter quickly holds out the photo that has been caught between his fingers since he came downstairs. “Here.”  
  
Ellen takes the picture, the one taken of the team in the bullpen for a reason Peter can't even remember, and shakes her head, letting out a sharp breath. “He’s the spitting image – ” she starts before catching herself. “He looks happy,” she amends, as though it’s the best and worst thing in the world. She offers the photo back to Peter, but he refuses.  
  
“Keep it.”

Ellen pauses, before carefully slipping it into her purse.   _Protect him_ , she says again before she leaves. But from who or what, Peter is suddenly unsure.  
  
Later that night, as he lies awake in bed, Peter thinks about who it was that he sent back out into the world, and who it would be that he finds.

 

 

 


End file.
